A Study In How To Keep Calm And Be Utterly Pitiful
by Dolorose-Lalonde
Summary: You'd think that after spending hundreds of lifetimes with the same people, you'd get better at dealing with them. A look into the rather volatile relationships Arthur Kirkland has collected over the years. Multiple friendships/pairings involving England.
1. the study of frogs

_A study of frogs._

_And what disgusting creatures they are._

He's always had that grotesque kinship with that smug prat, that constant and prominent thorn in his side. It's hard for Arthur to remember a time _before _the flamboyant _bastard_ of a man has acted as both his default adversary and ally, sometimes at the very same moment.

Over the years, over the almost boundless stretch of time Arthur none-too-fondly regarded as his lifespan, Francis Bonnefoy has been many things to him. His first and foggiest recollection of him, and one of the first and foggiest recollections of _anything_ really, was when Arthur was a pale-skinned, weak-kneed recluse of a child just beginning to represent a primitive fledgling-nation, if it could be called that.

The wavy-haired, garishly dressed beanpole boy had bent down before him, coming at eye-level to Arthur, making him spit an ungracious curse in warning and making the fae on his shoulder giggle amusedly. Blue eyes, sort of like the sky if the sky had qualities like arrogance and glee swirling around like clouds, peered into Arthur's face with something like curiosity and vague condescension; and in a soft and lilting voice he had introduced himself as Gaul (And what a _stupid_ name that is, England would think. And say out loud, as well.)

In present day, if Francis were to bring it up like he tried to bring up almost every little thing that England most certainly did _not_ want to bring up (Tactless, unsubtle bastard.), or refer to him as _mon petit frere _in that innocently indulgent way that he should've outgrown, Arthur would most certainly deny it, _I was young and stupid and why would I ever seriously think about being brother to a slimy smug-faced frog such as yourself?_; but truth be always fucking told, he held something between reluctant admiration and an even more reluctant sentiment of companionship for the grinning boy that called him _caterpillar_ and _fuzzy-brows_ and reminded him what an unruly mess his hair was and put flowers in his cloak for the hell of it. Just like he couldn't deny that after centuries of conflict and heartbreak, France and his loving antagonism was the closest, most stable thing in the unwavering clusterfuck that was his existence.

Those centuries of fighting and stealing and spitting vile words were_ glorious_, both of them being reckless and often merciless, with the world and with each other. Starting war after bloody war and reaping sorrow after sorrow, they had gone "too far" time and time again. As allies as often as they were belligerents, sometimes the only thing that kept them going was the thought of antagonizing one another in some sick dance that would _never_ be called romance. Arthur stealing away Francis's Jeanne, Francis stealing away Arthur's Alfred, they wounded one another again and again, and they expected each other to do so, it was often the only stable thing in their selfish, garish lives as empires and as starkly fragile _bastard _men.

It's the twenty-first century and they're tired now; both of their titles as world powers and both of their condemnations to tyranny stripped away and given to other, younger nations. (And what _pity _they both had for those poor fools who had no idea what they were getting into.) They share snarky banter, as per always, but without the physical conflict and the verbal intent to maim until dead that had plagued their glory years. When was the last time Arthur had injured the frog with something other than an irritated, pitiful blow to the face? And when was the last time there was any bite to the way Francis called him a furry-browed little beast, a petty little shrew, and it actually had any bite to it? (Saying those words in that croaking, gurgling tongue of his, of sodding _course_. As if England wasn't bloody sophisticated enough to know his damned language, as if England hadn't painstakingly learned that staunch dribble _just for him_.)

The malicious feelings that had boiled and burned between them had always been potently mixed with a stumbling sexuality, as well as this stark, painful affection of allies and brothers and _something else_. Now that the malicious feelings had simmered down to a pathetic, wispy steam; they had absolutely no idea what to do with themselves. Both in regards to one another, and in regards to their countries that were no longer as proud and as revered as they were so seemingly recently.

In the end, they simply decide to look upon the cities they've come to know as their hearts and be grateful that they don't see the impedingly foreboding silhouettes of gallows or guillotines; and look upon their streets and be grateful that they don't see rotting heads on sticks.

In the end, they decide to toss over-recycled verbal barbs at each other like always, and not bother to fight the tired smiles at the entire ridiculousness of it all. In the end, they decide to be Arthur Kirkland, the embodiment of fallen empire and forgotten triumph, and Francis Bonnefoy, the embodiment of stricken pride and constant defeat. Perhaps they can also be the weak-kneed little boy with a scowl on his face and a faerie on his shoulder, and the boy who called himself Gaul who had eyes like some vastly condescending sky.


	2. the study of tea

_The study of tea._

_And why it's served best with a good dose of opium and a sickening dash of betrayal._

Despite their rather tumultuous history with each other, Arthur and Yao had a bit more in common, a bit more of an undeniable similarity that neither of them could really quite deny.

It was somewhat pathetic, to both parties involved, that sometimes the only way they really acted diplomatic with each other was when they were drowning; gurgling and almost writhing in their own sorrows. Often, it's either in the bitter, spicy form of tea or booze.

Both of them had used to be flourishing, admired and strong. Ancient, potent cultures and unbreakable grasps on dignity and political power, somewhat isolated and somewhat disliked; and for goodness's sake, they had liked it that way.

Both rather lonely specimens of nations; both preferring to revel in their own faults and triumphs without caring too much for others that they found to be irritating at best. China holding contempt for the ever rambunctious, (may-the-powers-in-heaven-_damn_-them) Westerners, and England holding contempt for…pretty much everyone, sometimes including himself. Occasionally, at his beloved country's most wretched of times, _especially_ including himself.

What made them fall, what, in their eyes, had ruined them worse than invasions and civil war; was letting the wrong people into their hearts. The two of them, had found a smaller, more innocent nation, fledgling and flightless and utterly irresistible. For what now seemed to them as a terribly short time, they had adopted these children as their brothers; and had delighted in having somebody look up to them in an adoring manner that could have been love, and had grown to love them themselves with all the heart that they had been beginning to doubt they had.

And then, betrayal. For Yao, betrayal had come in the form of a blade in the flesh of his back, and later, in the form of unspeakable brutality against his people. He had not heeded the warning signs, the red flags redder than his nation's star-clad flag, in the form of sidelong glances that bordered on predatory. In the form of the honourific for _brother _being dropped, of the aura of respect battling with a newfound stench of _something_, (He knows it wasn't hatred, was it disgust, was it cold calculation?) making the flower-scented air something he could choke on. He had ignored it all, and paid for it with his stoic-eyed brother _leaving_, leaving just like the rest of his siblings, and _why_?

The betrayal, for Arthur, was admittedly his doing. Betrayal, for Arthur, had come in the form of a gun barrel aimed between his eyes, rain-dampened mud under his kneeling knees, and a nauseatingly official paper in his hands declaring that _I'm not yours anymore, England. _Although he had been told time and time again to cut it out, you're being too hard on us, England, we aren't fucking kings over here; he had foolishly thought, well, you are my brother, you are my colony and you are _mine_, is it not natural that you must do what I say? Betrayal had embittered him for _many_ goddamned years, and while no, he did not hold a grudge any longer; he still often wondered that perhaps if he hadn't played as such a tyrant, his little blue-eyed boy might not have turned out _so bloody stupid._

Because, it wasn't just about their personal grievance, it's been a long time and much has happened, they were worried. Their positions, as huge, revered, and powerful, had been taken from them; their glory whittling away from them over the years; and their position now, really, was of tired and grumpy old men, who clung to old dignity and drowned themselves in booze and tea. Their old power had been shifted to those very not-brothers-anymore that had fought tooth and nail for their own chances at glory.

And glory they had received.

It was sort of painful, a sort of ache in the chest, to see their former brothers reaching the heights of their glory, the peaks of their power. Because they also had to watch them fall, and they would, if only to serve the sort of masochistic ache it gave. If there was one thing they had both learnt, over the course of these bloody fucking millennia, it was that power _never _lasts; that you could be caressing prostitutes and gold at one moment and on your knees before someone who had suddenly proved themselves to be better at the game of life than you, in the very next second. They had seen their precious little siblings make such grievous mistakes, they had seen them destroy others and destroy themselves. They knew that they'd keep up this cycle of victory and destitution until finally, they were ancient and battered and in the same exhausted position as their former mentors. These younger nations had more naiveté then they could ever possibly fucking know, and England and China both knew that someday they'd fall from the towers of star-covered sweat and bone they'd created for themselves, and that they'd fall and the only thing they could do was call them _moron_ and make sure that they would be able to stand again.

It was still somewhat common, between the two of them. Two straight-backed dignitaries sipping at tea and discussing the wisdom they've collected like dust (Because living that long, what else can you really bloody do?). Or, two scrawny, slurring bastards coughing on rum and crying over the nations that used to be family to them and would plummet to the ground from their self-created pedestals and make a mess that they would not be able to clean up.

They stare at each other, blurry grass on watery amber, and only then would China drop the _–ahen_ prefix.

Who needs the hostility they can put off until tomorrow? For now, they're just two cynical men discussing how the world is going to end.

**A/N:**

**I'm trying to decide whom to do next? I'm thinking maybe either Norway or Germany/Prussia, one of the more minor relationships before I move on to big shit like America. :O**


	3. the study of quiet

_A study of quiet._

_And the peace of mind it gives._

He likes quiet.

Yes, he does like the sounds of wailing guitars and the squalling clamor of guns and swords, but he does like the quiet; if only because he doesn't get enough of it.

Kiku Honda, he finds, is the very personification of this word.

This does not necessarily mean that during Arthur's visits, they do not speak to each other. Though they know full well they could easily do so without any trace of awkwardness, and take solace in this fact.

Often, they're simply kneeling on the floor in that peculiar way Japan insists on. (During their first meetings, England had complained, _Why can't we sit like civilized people, this is bloody ridiculous._, and waited for him to either obediently comply or start an argument, like everyone else, but no, he's learnt that Kiku Honda did not work that way.) They'd talk, about simple things, about intellectual things; he'd usually forget what their conversations were about by the time he boarded his flight back to London, but his meetings with the Japanese man would regardless leave him with a fleeting sense of peace he couldn't quite get by the means of anybody else.

France himself has commented on how England seems almost alarmingly calmer when Japan's around. England has just simply curled his lip and muttered, _Because he's __sane_, which was admittedly half the reason.

It was a low-key, noncommittal relationship, whatever it was they had. There was no flare of sexual desire at physical contact. There was no spouting, spontaneous geysers of affection, no heartfelt declarations of friendship, but there was also no strikes of fists or screaming, sobbing emotional breakdowns.

It was simple, quiet companionship, and considering the loud cries of political drama and emotional turmoil that was all around them at nearly all times; the closest reprieve they had was each other.


End file.
